The Forgiving Sea
by Rosette-Cullen
Summary: After Edward, a British Navy soldier, watches his beloved vessel sink with his fellow soldiers and captain, he stumbles upon the Boston shores. When a young girl spots him wounded in the grass what will become of this Englishman? Example entry.


**A/N: Another example for The Age of Edward Contest.**

**Thanks to Vixen1836 for the amazing idea!**

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**Age of Edward Contest**

**Title: The Forgiving Sea**

**Your pen name: Rosette-Cullen**

**Type of Edward: British Navyward**

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this contest visit: The Age of Edward C2 Community:  
http://www(DOT)fanfiction(DOT)net/community/The_Age_of_Edward_Contest/70125/**

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Bright lights, explosions, the whistling of a four hundred pound piece of rock and metal sculpted into a ball whizzing right past my head and cutting off sound from my right ear, a voice screaming for help, another crying for mercy.

The captain refused to give up, bartering the lives of his faithful crew over the unforgiving colonel that awaited him on the shore. He cursed at a man on the ground—with no left index finger—and told him to take aim and shoot with his middle instead. Right as the petrified little boy saluted the cruel man; a cannonball split between them and took off the rest of the boy's arm. He'd be dead within five minutes at the least. The captain looked at me exasperatedly, he knew it as well. Drawing his pistol that was hand delivered from the queen, he shot the fat silver bullet into the kid's head.

I reloaded my musket for the thousandth time, my hands brown and black from the flimsy copper rubbing off on them. The way my skin began to flake from my palm and painfully rub against the brass of the tail end of my gun was starting to infiltrate my war mindset.

_Water, water everywhere and yet not a drop to drink,_ I thought wryly. Taking aim again, I ducked down behind the railing of the boat and shot when my scope met up with the little Yank's right eyes.

He screamed a horrible sound that consumed every other noise, and if there was ever such a thing as war stopping, it would have right then.

The boy dropped to the floor instantly, a medic came over to do nothing more than wrap it in a white cloth and maybe pluck the bullet out from his bloodied and torn muscle. The thought made me smile, not because I was as sick as those Yanks, but because back home I'd done the same task alongside my father in an operating room with proper equipment and techniques.

Once again I reloaded. The powder continuously flew into my throat, making it even more dry, and I hurried desperately to get in another shot so we might end this. The British had won almost every Navy battle at sea so far, but this time it was different. We were a mile away from the Boston Harbor and if I looked out I could see the warm glow of heavy hearths and almost smell the signature American apple pies.

The bullet caught in the musket right as I pushed it down.

"Oh no," I whispered. "Bloody little fucker, go all the way down or I'll have to use you as a club!"

To my left a loud screaming of several men echoed around the ship. The Yanks had done the unthinkable, played with fire.

About four men, all manning the cannons, were running around with their arms waving and setting even more chaos as they paraded around to their death. The captain screamed and yelled but no one heeded anything he said, they were too busy trying to flee from the quickly engulfing flames. And if that wasn't enough, several had connected lines to the ship.

A shaggy looking wretch jumped in front of me, grinning like he'd found himself a prize pig to skin alive. He held a pistol, and I a half cocked musket. The repercussions of my actions would most likely kill us both….

I shot, shot without thinking like any good soldier was taught to do.

Apparently the Yank didn't think to shoot right away as the half-lodged bullet made it's way in slow motion through his chest and sticking right through where his lungs would be. The back end of the musket exploded before me, pieces of shrapnel sticking into my chest and throat and I could feel one slowly protruding into my air way.

A torent of pain overrode my senses and eclipsed my sight. The dust and gun powder was clinging to my eyes and I'd inhaled a good amount as well. I screamed for a moment and once I found no purchase in doing so--because I couldn't make a sound--I reach a hand to my throat.

The piece of copper was lodged in tightly, close to my trachea, and if I didn't do something soon I'd suffocate or drown from the blood collecting.

Panic, that was the only way to describe my actions… any good soldier was told never to panic, always use calm thoughts, always maintain control, always—

I couldn't breath! Holy Mother, I was dying!

My hand fisted around the metal and I screamed because my body was acting on what my brain could not comprehend. I pulled the shrapnel from my throat and it clanged to the ground mockingly with its sickly wet sound.

I gasped for breath, choked on my blood, and screamed in agony at the flames ripping apart my chest and throat. I could breath! But I was soon to die anyway.

The fire around me created a thick black smoke, men were being shot and stabbed, while I stood in one of the most harmful places—between gun powder barrels—but was hidden from their view.

A good soldier will go down beside his ship, for honor and glory and—

I jumped overboard. My body was in control now, my mind had gotten us this far and it was time that my survival instincts took over all else.

If I paced myself I could swim that mile. Behind me the ship casted open glares over the water, illuminating my way, telling me that it understood why I had to leave, but my seven months aboard its fine vessel were not in vein.

The SS Augustine went down in flames, several Yanks stupidly yelling for someone to throw a rope over as they weren't bright enough to figure that if the boat burned, so would they. I laughed condescendingly as I swam towards the shore and around all the gawking and cheering crowds.

Between the freezing waters and the humid July air I was drowning in pain and misery, wondering where this leisurely swim would end up taking me.

Finally, after what seemed like hours upon, long, horrible hours, I managed to crawl onto shore and drag myself back into the woods. I probably looked like a dying animal trying to sustain its last leg of life… but I was hopeless and completely stubborn at the same time.

How? How could this have happened? It couldn't have, no, not at all, we'd had the upper hand for hours until they somehow pulled out even more two shot muskets. I'd never seen anything like that before, they were modified somehow, and the bullets were stronger and more durable, but definitely made of copper unless they'd used nickel instead.

I leaned back against a large cherry tree and watched the boat I'd called home sink. The wounds in my chest ached, ached worse because I felt like my heart was sinking along with that ship. Would it even matter if I fled? The Yanks would find me; they'd probably hang me in the town square and paint my dead body in curses to Britain.

It was too much, even as I moved to sit up away from the cherry tree I couldn't manage to make it. I watched the bright orange flames engulf the ship and my eyes slowly closed from exhaustion and grief.

--

Not five minutes later it seemed was I jostled awake. My shoulder was violently nudged until I opened my eyes and was about ready to tell off whatever crewmate had decided to ruin my slumber.

But no, upon opening my eyes I did not see a crew mate. No crew mate had ever stirred such a feeling in the wake of my unused loins before.

A young girl, no older than eighteen, held a gun to me. The barrel was staring me down, threatening any movement and its consequences. I thought that muskets and I had become good friends over the years, and now it was looking down as if I had been caught with its wife.

The girl had mahogany dark brown hair and even darker eyes. Her skin was quite fair for the heated temperatures of July, but she was flushed from the neck up with fear. I could have smiled at her if I didn't think she'd pull the trigger out of instinctual defense. No one would accuse her of wrongdoing if she were to bring back the corpse of an English man.

"Who…" she whispered shakily. "Who are you?"

That gun had no place in her small hands. She had three fingers gripping the trigger and they were shaking dangerously towards my accidental death. I could speak, but when she'd hear my accent there would be no telling what could happen.

The tight blue dress with years of wear gave hints to the chemise underneath, smooth and thin because of the unbearable heat and she looked so young and fragile with that killing machine in her hand. No girl should have to kill, it was the worst, most beastly thing that a man could allow, even if he was on the opposite end of that gun.

I slapped the barrel away with my left hand and grabbed onto it roughly while shaking it from her fingers and throwing it farther away so I wouldn't have any urges to point it back at her.

She shrieked but otherwise made no noise besides shaking violently and looking at me like I was the devil and had just risen from the gates of hell to claim her soul.

I swallowed before trying to speak and when I opened my mouth, I immediately coughed. Sludge and black powder came from my throat and the girl before me gasped and panicked even more. This time her panic brought her closer and her hands fluttered around me as if trying to find a place to touch.

The thought of the way my chest must appear bloodied and torn struck me then, and the pain began to claw back.

"Um," she hummed over and over again while moving my shirt gently but cautiously. "Oh! Water, you probably need water."

I nodded my head vigorously and she knelt down in front of me. A small wooden picnic basket was beside her feet and the smells, oh, the smells coming from that basket were… oh God, they were better than anything I'd smelled in so long.

She gently took out a small pitcher of lemonade and bit her lip enough to break the skin. She was lovely, even for a Yank.

"All I have is lemonade…" she said to me. "It might burn a bit…"

I nodded to her, a gesture to give it to me no matter how much it burned. She moved closer to me and placed the small pitcher close to my lips and fed me slowly like a child. The lemonade burned, burned beyond the flames I'd felt last night, but I swallowed every bit to quell my aching my stomach from the powder within it.

By the time I had finished off the pitcher and winced at the last swallow I breathed in deeply and nodded my head to the girl in appreciation. Perhaps in my injured state she felt more at ease because she nodded and smiled the tiniest bit before placing the empty pitcher back inside her basket.

"I was supposed to go for a picnic with a friend who just got home…" she said. "But you appear to be of more need than someone waiting at the park. Where is it that you live?"

I shook my head, closing my eyes. I couldn't yet speak, though I had regained little strength, I could not allow her the chance to kill me, not yet.

"Oh, you're not from around Boston now are you?" she answered herself. "Virginia perhaps?"

I nodded slowly and she smiled again.

"You look as though you might have been wearing a uniform, did you just come back from a march?" she eyed my clothing, my jacket had been long torn away and my pants were so muddied that the red looked eternally brown and stained with gunpowder. I nodded. "Then I bet you were attacked!" she gasped. I nodded yet again. "How horrible! They could still be around here, too!" She stood to her feet and looked around frantically for no reason but the one in front of her.

I shook my head and wrapped an arm around my aching my stomach. The shrapnel was cutting beyond my flesh and into my muscles with each passing moment. I should have torn them out before I fell asleep to prevent this.

The girl looked on with horror while I felt around my arms and pulled pieces of copper and bronze from my forearms.

"Please, not here," she whispered and placed a dainty hand on my shoulder, just missing a hefty piece stuck between there and my collar bone. "My home is only five minutes away from here." My eyes grew frantically wide and she ducked her head like she was telling me a secret. "Oh, they're looking for you right?" I nodded frantically. "Don't worry, if we go behind the baker's and butcher's alley no one will see us."

What a strange little thing this girl was. Here she was ready to shoot me with a musket and then willing to help me along to her house. She was willingly helping the enemy and didn't even know it. I figured it would be best to accept this hospitality before I had to head out on my own again.

Somehow she managed to haul me up and I used the musket as a crutch. I was easily two heads taller than her but she tried to support my weight with my arm wrapped around her small shoulders. By the time we eventually made it to the alley sweat was beading on her brow and falling steadily. I attempted to walk on my own, but she would only pull me back down, insisting on helping.

Surprisingly enough, no one saw us. Every time a door would swing open she ducked between stores like she was on some secret assignment and to be caught was certain death. I laughed when she jumped from a stray cat running across our path.

When she stopped by a flimsy wooden fence to catch her breath I did just the same. I was beyond exhausted and my muscles were still aching from the night of sleeping upright.

The house behind the wooden fence was small with a porch and two rocking chairs lightly blowing in the wind. The house was trimmed with light blue paint, almost the exact same shade as the girl's.

Before I had anymore time to inspect the home she pulled me along sharply, both of us desperate for rest.

The inside of the house was normal, less tasteful than anything I'd seen in England, but it was comfortable and relaxing. Well, relaxing as much as one could feel inside the enemy's house.

"The guest bedroom is upstairs…" she mumbled beside me. "Would you mind staying in a woman's room?" she asked hopefully.

I shook my head and she led me to a soft white room with white drapes and light brown furniture. The bed was larger than anything I'd slept on in months and the simple fact that it wasn't a cot made my feet move forward.

"I should allow you to clean up." She said and moved to the hall again. I sighed loudly to myself and followed her out. "I can draw a bath for you if you'd like. I know that those wounds need to be taken care of before infection starts. I should call the doctor—"

"It's fine," I choked. She turned to me, her eyebrows scrunching together. I thought I'd concealed my accent fine, but what if she caught it? What if she knew?

"Alright, I know soldier's pride, don't worry." She smiled knowingly and waved her hand. "The bath should be ready in a few moments, you can sit down if you'd like."

I didn't waste time going back into her room and nearly falling onto her bed. The mattress conformed to my body, holding me in place and my eyes closed.

--

Once again, five minutes later I was shaken awake, this time gentler.

The girl was sitting before me on her knees and biting her lip again. It was darker now, the sun was just about to finish setting and she looked nervous. Of course, a young girl with a strange man in her house who'd barely spoken to her would be nervous.

"The bath is ready… I thought you could use some sleep, though." She whispered.

I nodded and slowly began to sit up. The breath was knocked right out of me as I pulled myself up on my elbows. The girl put her hands on my back, and finding purchase where there were no injuries, pushed upward until I sat up on my own.

She led me to the bathroom, blushing as she left me to undress and set myself in the warm water. I sighed aloud and groaned to myself. It had been five months since a real warm bath, one without ocean or lake water. My eyes rolled back into my head at the feeling of my feet submersing then my calves, knees, thighs, my waist and I drew a breath through my teeth as the water came to mid chest as I sunk down.

Five minutes into my relaxing soak there was a knock at the door. Looking around, I grabbed a towel close by and covered my waist like the proper gentleman would. I cleared my throat and the girl came in, her face scarlet and a small bag with a Red Cross symbol on the front. In the other hand she had a pile of clothing.

"I brought you some of my father's clothes." She explained, extending her arm and then clumsily dropping them beside the tub. "I thought I should try to remove the pieces of metal from your wounds while they're soaking in water."

I nodded and the girl continued forward, sitting on the stool beside the tub and keeping her eyes focused on my chest. So she was shy around naked men? I could have guessed as much, but to the extent that her whole body lit up brighter than a cigar end unexplainably amused me.

She ran a finger around the worst wound and I snapped my eyes closed. She whispered her apology and withdrew her hand instead to open the bag and pull out a set of metal tongs.

She bit her lip and lightly clasped them to the shrapnel. Her teeth broke through the skin and she winced. I clenched my teeth to deter my accent.

"Do it quickly," I hissed.

She obeyed instantly and pulled it out. My back arched and my fists clenched the tub as the pain shot through every nerve point in my body.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Again," I snapped.

She obeyed and did the one in my shoulder. I howled in my pain but clenched my teeth to stop from making any noises. The next couple went by without any sound from me other than the grinding of my teeth.

When she pulled one out that made me whimper she spoke. "I'm Isabella, by the way. I don't much like the name, I prefer Bella. My mom used to call me that all the time and it just stuck." She pulled another and winced as if it had been done to her. "I'm seventeen, my birthday is in a week and a half and I'm pretty sure a friend of mine is throwing this big extravagant party. Last year she got me a Parisian silk dress that I wore only once to church on Christmas."

Surprisingly enough her banter pulled my mind from focusing on the pain. Bella continued to speak about a retriever dog she had as a child but it ran away before she could really form a bond with it and that was all she could say about animals—except horses, but horses hated her so she preferred to walk as opposed to riding.

When she finished with my chest and moved to my neck her talk became softer, like she was speaking with a child.

"My mom died when I was fourteen," she said sadly wiggling a piece out. "She had some kind of disease in her heart that the doctors couldn't fix. If it had been two years later they might have been able to do something, but it was inoperable, that's all they kept saying to me, the problem was inoperable and they couldn't tell what was wrong. I hate that word, so please don't use it."

"I won't," I said, the strain in my voice giving no hint at my accent. "What about your father?" I choked. I had to stay away from the word father, the beginning of the word proved to be difficult when enunciating.

"My father's in the army," she scoffed.

My blood ran cold. If he saw me, if he heard me, he would know immediately I was an Englishman, and he'd kill me on the spot with his bare hands or drag me by my hair to set an example. Somehow she knew my panic even though I masked it behind the pain and ran her hand over my head soothingly.

"He won't be back for a while. He's on a march with several new units. I won't see him until fall, but his friends come by to check on me. Sue Clearwater comes by all the time to make sure I'm taking care of myself." Her words held warning in them, telling me if I planned on trying anything there would be someone to get me.

I nodded and allowed her to finish the job, sitting back into the water that was slowly cooling. Finally, the last piece was out and fell down to the floor of the bloody bath water. She tenderly ran a bar of soap over my arms and chest to clean off the blood and then started to wash my hair.

It was odd. I had never been washed by anyone other than my mother as a child and yet I felt so incredibly at ease with Bella touching me with her gentle fingers soothing away the months of stress and strain, and the newly piled guilt.

"What is your name?" she asked while pouring a pitcher of clean water over my head and then drying it with a towel.

I cleared my throat a bit. "Edward,"

"Edward." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Edward, I like that name. It suits you very well."

She stood up then to leave me with the task of getting dressed, but I wasn't prepared for her to leave yet. I grabbed onto her dress. Bella turned to me curiously and I felt pathetic.

"I—" I swallowed trying to formulate the words in my mind. "I don't believe… I can get dressed… myself."

Bella flushed again, biting her lip and then running her tongue over where she'd cut with her teeth before. Surprisingly, she nodded and reached out a hand for me.

I felt ridiculous and instantly regretted stopping her. I stood, the towel still covering the front of my waist while she avoided looking at me. I grabbed a dry towel, and dropped the wet one into the tub. The little minx looked down.

I laughed loudly and she flushed even more, turning her back as I wrapped the dry towel around my waist and handed her the shirt for assistance.

--

The strange thing about Bella was that she was the complete opposite of what I'd been taught of Americans in England.

Bella never judged anyone or anything. A girl had come by inquiring about the town for information regarding what had happened the night of the battle on the water. Bella hadn't watched the battle; she hadn't wanted to witness blood being shed. I scoffed aloud at that. American's wanted nothing more than to bathe in the blood of the English.

She never once treated me like a stranger after my first night. She cooked me a large breakfast that was better than anything I'd had in England, and she often baked confections with cream and chocolate that made me swoon from pleasure of the senses.

I had become more skilled at masking my accent. I avoided certain words that had 'a' in them because I tended to stretch them out, but I had managed to master my way around vowels so that I almost sounded American. I practiced at night when I planned to bring up conversation. I didn't speak much and preferred to listen to Bella; she never paused when speaking unless she saw something in my facial expression that said I wanted to input conversation.

Her father was a general in the American army, General Swan commanded three different frontiers and was rarely home. Bella lived on her own most of the year and attended school during the fall and winter with hopes of one day becoming a teacher, but she was scared of what people would think.

"It matters not what others think," I'd told her. "Do as you like, not what other would like you to do." She smiled sweetly and nodded her head in agreement.

Most of my wounds had closed up. I would have scars, but that was better than getting a skin disease. Bella took care of me every night, washing down my wounds even if I insisted I could do it on my own. She'd become almost used to my nudity in the tub before I stood up to drop the towel. That was the best part of the evening.

Her face would flush, her eyes would dart everywhere, and then they would pull back and she would bite that pretty pink lip. More recently her chest would begin to heave and last night I'd become erect before her eyes.

Bella was an attractive girl, though she thought herself plain, she had curves more vivacious than an adult and her intelligence bested me at certain points such as literature while history was where I could give her a lesson or two.

So as I sat on the bed in her room, looking out through a large window, watching her speak lively to some Yank soldier in uniform, speaking at the speed of light and not allowing her a word in edgewise, I wanted to shoot someone. Bella began switching from one foot to another, a sure sign of tiredness from standing so long or boredom.

The soldier was tall and tan, a Native American. The Yanks had lowered their standards for soldiers. I was surprised he'd not been killed yet.

He placed a hand atop of Bella's shoulder and leaned in closer. His eyes became more serious as he spoke—delivering a message. Was it from her father? Had he been killed? Or was there another attack coming to the harbor? If there was an attack on the harbor and they managed to gain land would I go back? Of course I would! But I owed more to Bella than to run from her, I owed just as much to my country, though.

Bella's shoulders locked and she took a step back in alarm. What did this man say? Was he trying to take my American Princess away? I'd slaughter him before he had the opportunity.

Bella looked aghast and ran inside, the man shouting behind her. The front door opened and I could hear her now.

"Oh, I'm fine, Jacob! I just don't feel too well at the moment."

"Do you want me to take you to town?"

"No, no, I just need some rest. Thank you for telling me, I'll be on the look out."

"Tell her what?" I muttered without my accent instinctively. I moved forward to the foyer where she was leaning against the door with a hand covering her mouth. "Bella?"

She jumped at my voice. I hadn't used my accent, she heard me coming….

"Jacob said there was a soldier swimming across the harbor the night of the battle on the water." She stared at the floor with her shoulders shaking.

"I—I heard," I said back.

"There was a man who happened to face him before he jumped off, Edward." She looked up me with fierce eyes. "He had _green_ eyes and red hair and was English."

Bloody hell! That Yank fucker should have died! I pierced his lung, how could he survive? He was ruining everything!

I swallowed and I tried not to squirm in my place at her glare.

"Give me a full explanation of what happened to you previous to me finding you." She knew. She knew it was me. I couldn't lie, I couldn't. "Get out. I won't call Jacob back to the house, but you better run."

"Bella—"

"Go!"

"I can't, you don't understand—"

"You have an accent," she gasped and backed up further into the door. "How could I have not noticed before," she mumbled to herself.

"I was hiding it," I explained. "I was trying to hide who I was. I know how much Yanks hate Englishmen, I couldn't risk it!"

"You lied to me!" There were tears in her eyes and she let them flow freely. "I sheltered you, I took care of you, I—I—" She fell to her knees as if I had struck her.

"If I had told you who I was the moment we met, would you have taken me? Would you have protected me the way you did?"

"You lied to me…" she sobbed.

"Answer me, Isabella!"

"I don't know!" she cried. "You kill people everyday; you kill people I know, my friends and family."

"Your country does the same. My brother and his wife had their home burned down by Americans that was the reason I enlisted in the navy."

She didn't say anything, but her loud sobs stopped. Still on the ground, she cried and wiped away tear after tear that fell. Any good soldier would have walked out the door and saved themselves from certain death, any good soldier would raid the home and go hide until another attack on the harbor came. Any good soldier would have walked away from the girl on the floor.

I had abandoned my ship, my crew, and my country; I had nothing more to live for because I was certain after this crushing defeat they would never come back.

I walked forward and fell before Bella. She looked up and I wrapped my arms around her slender shoulders. She naturally resisted but soon fell gently into my embrace. Strange, I'd never really hugged a girl before, not like this, not with real emotion and revelation on my side.

Her full pink lips pressed against my throat, one of my scars by her face….

I turned my face curiously until our lips barely brushed and then pressed them together. It was pure bliss. She tasted like apples and honey, sweet and amazingly delicious against my lips. I wanted more, more of my American Princess.

Bella pushed herself closer suddenly, her fingers wrapping themselves in my hair and I fell onto my back while she was on my chest. I hissed and she straddled my waist on either side, mumbling her apologies against my lips over and over again. I mumbled mine back, tentatively, hoping she saw through my pretence and found the person who genuinely cared for her.

"Is your name really Edward?" She asked.

"Yes, Edward Anthony Masen the second," I answered. She smiled with tears in her betrayed eyes and kissed me again.

This time it was more aggressive. We nipped with our teeth and soft wet tongues mingled together in synchrony. A little moan escaped from her lips and she—she sat on my waist, directly on my crotch. I gasped loudly and my hands went to her curvaceous hips.

As sinful as it was, I hiked her dress up. Nearly ripping it, I pushed it to her stomach, the layers of fabric pooling over my legs, and I felt her, so hot, against my rock hard erection.

A spasm rock my spine and I sat us both up, my hands touching her everywhere, anywhere, I needed to feel her, needed her around me and on me. Picking her up, I walked to the bed like a fresh groom bringing his bride across the threshold. This was anything but pure sanctity, though.

Once she was lying on the bed, I was pulled down by her hands fisting my shirt. I shed it before I fell atop her. Our lips smashed together, melding and worming open for tongues and soft cries while our hips undulated against the others. She became wild, thrashing her head and I laid the length of my body upon hers and yanking down her dress and chemise to reveal her perfectly shaped breast, rosy nipples reaching up for me taste and pinch. She squirmed as I ignored them, moving down until her entire dress slipped off her silky skin and to the floor.

I stood above her, in nothing but my pants, admiring my fleshy, hot, wet, squirming American Princess. She was panting and crying out, her legs parting open to reveal pink lips covered in glistening liquid heaven with a pink clit actually swollen and reaching out to me.

I ran the tip of my finger gently across it and her body shook with her hips arching into my grasp. She was so beautiful, so purely angelic and all mine.

Any soldier knew that we have rarely any—if none at all—possessions. When a soldier does have something, they are to keep it, protect it and cherish it with their heart and soul.

My pants proved no feat as I slipped out of them and continued to watch her hooded eyes and swollen body dance for me. I stroked myself in time to her hips. The most erotic thing I'd ever seen was laid out before me, begging for me to touch.

"Edward," she whimpered.

"Promise me you'll wait," I whispered.

"I can't wait…"

"No, promise me you'll wait for me to return."

Her eyes sparked. "You can't leave!"

"I must."

"No!" she cried. "You can't leave, you can't!"

"I promise you, Bella, I promise you with everything in me that I _will_ come back. Promise me you'll wait until this war is over."

Her lip quivered and she whispered, "I promise,"

I fell into position above her. Over and over she whispered her promise, and like with our apologies, I whispered mine back. She would wait, and I would come back for her. I wouldn't go away forever. We would be reunited in this crazy revolutionary world.

I slipped in, surprised at the intense feeling of warmth and wet. She was so small and tight, so very breakable. I made it quick like she had done in the tub. I broke through her virginity and waited while she sobbed into my shoulder from more than the pain of her hymen breaking.

My heart broke, her heart broke. We were innocence wrapped in sin.

She begged me to keep going, telling me that pain was nothing for her if it was nothing for me. I moved for her, trying to quiet the groans that left me, but finding the sensation too good to keep quiet. We made our own symphony of soft cries and moans, beautiful screaming and shrieking.

I moved and moved but never went anywhere. We looked into each other's eyes, searching for hope through our desperation, and something sparked in her eye, and maybe in mine too because we both let go in that moment, arching and flexing while screaming names and curse words that God's ears were never meant to hear.

When it was over, I hugged her close, closer than I ever thought possible and listened to her sleep, watched her dreaming eyes dance.

I left a note on her dresser detailing my acute feelings for her in the most emasculate way possible, but with Bella it was all I could think to do.

I walked from the house, remembering the address to write to when at all possible, and I snuck off into the night, fresh with the scent of my American Princess.

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**A/N: If you liked this example head over to my profile and check out the C2 for other amazing entries and get your own entry ready before July 15th.**

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